Closer.
I can feel the warmth of him. My heart hammers in my chest. I can’t hear the TV anymore. And then, something flickers across his face. Some thought. Some reminder.
He pulls back.
Just an inch. But it doesn’t feel like the last time we almost kissed. There’s nothing cold about it. Just careful. Wistful. A moment held between us.
“You should probably get some sleep,” he says quietly, his breath brushing my skin. “Big day tomorrow.”
“Right,” I manage to breathe. I pull away and stand on unsteady legs. “You’re right.”
I cross to the door and pause. “Good night, Brody.”
“Good night.”
I step into the room and close the door behind me, leaning back against it, my head spinning. I press a hand to my cheek, my cool palm soothing against my scalding skin.
We’re playing with fire.
There’ve been too many close calls.
If we keep going like this, we’re bound to fall.
And neither of us can afford to fall, because in two days, we’re going to break up—disastrously, publicly, heartbreakingly.
And if we don’t? It’s not the first time the thought has crossed my mind.
I pull out my phone, swiping into the photos app, and find the screenshot I took of the contract clause.
Both parties agree to maintain the appearance of a genuine romantic relationship through all wedding events. Upon completion of the Wedding (Event #4), both parties will execute a staged public breakup at the Wedding Reception (Event #5), with Party B (Chloe Dawson) initiating the breakup and Party A (Brody Kane) positioned as “at fault,” followed by a mandatory thirty-day no-contact period. Any premature breakup, exposure of the contractual nature of the relationship, or other deviation from this termination plan will result in forfeiture of all benefits: Party A loses NHL contract renewal, and Party B forfeits all payment and owes financial penalties.
If we don’t break up, I lose all the money, and he loses…everything.
I turn off the light and head to bed.
Two more days.
We can do this.
Thirteen
Brody
I don’t sleep.
Not really.
I lie on the sofa, my feet dangling off the end, blanket pulled up to my chin, staring at the ceiling beams while the fire crackles and pops and slowly burns down to embers. Whoever picked out the furniture for the honeymoon suite obviously didn’t anticipate anybody sleeping on the sofa, because it’s about as comfortable as rocks, but I’ve slept on worse. Airport floors. Team buses with broken suspension. That hotel in Calgary where the heater died and we all huddled in our winter coats until maintenance showed up at three a.m.
This isn’t about the couch.
This is about the fact that Chloe is just on the other side of that door, sleeping in a bed covered in rose petals, completely unaware that I’m lying here having what Conrad would probably call an “emotional crisis.”
The dragon with the sad heart.
That’s what she called it. The grumpy dragon who keeps everyone out because he’s too scared to let anyone see the real him.
She sees me.
